


Vigilante

by coeurastronaute



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, clarke is a paramedic, lexa is a spy and vigilante, the vigilante au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coeurastronaute/pseuds/coeurastronaute
Summary: If you’re still taking Clexa prompts, could you write a vigilante au where Clarke helps a very injured Lexa after she returns home from a mission gone wrong please?!





	1. Chapter 1

The streets were hallow, were orange and off-putting, but still Clarke walked through the night towards her home through the manufactured light. There was little traffic at the late hour, little noise save for a city grumbling in its sleep and hiding under the pillow of pre-morning fog that rolled in from the lake.

The medic pulled up the collar of her jacket after adjusting the bag on her shoulder and blew out a breath that earned a tiny cloud of smoke as Autumn pulled the air tight and crisp against her skin. Despite the offer for a ride from her partner, Clarke elected to stroll down the midnight street towards her apartment. Something about needing to stretch her legs, something about needing to disappear, something about her innate need to look into people’s windows that were lit by lamps or televisions and imagine their lives that left her feeling oddly alone, but on nights like this night, kept her alive a bit longer.

By the time she climbed the four flights to her apartment, she regret her decision to walk and smiled as she unlocked the deadbolt as she remembered her seventy-two hours off.

Mechanically, she picked up the mail and tossed it and her keys on the table. Her bag fell somewhere by the chairs as she moved towards the kitchen and flipped on the light.

“Don’t make a sound,” a voice whispered behind her as her mouth was covered and her shoulders yanked back. Clarke tried to yell and pull away but failed. “Please. Look. I’m asking politely. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

For another few seconds Clarke tried to yank herself free until she stopped, aware that nothing else was happening.

“I’m going to put this down,” the voice said, hot and laboured against her ear, removing the metal of the gun barrel from Clarke’s ribs. “And we’re just going to have a chat. But one noise out of you and I’ll have to probably knock you out. Do you understand?” Clarke nodded quickly. 

As soon as she was let go, Clarke pulled to the other side of the kitchen, putting the island between them. Her whole body felt like it was shaking. Her muscles were tight, her mouth dry. She should have screamed, but her voice didn’t work.

“See,” the girl held up her weapon before putting it down on the counter. It sat between them. Clarke’s eyes darted back and forth, her heart chriping in her throat. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“What do you want?” 

“You’re a medic. You work with Bellamy Blake. I kind of need your help.” With a movement, the assailant moved her arm slightly to reveal the distinct bullet hole in her side. 

“I don’t know what you think I can do… I don’t know who you are… but we can get you to a hospital.”

“What do hospitals do with all shooting victims?” 

Clarke grit her teeth and pursed her lips and watched the girl wince as she pushed her arm back against the offending spot. Her eyes were painted over black, that familiar logo she’d seen around town. She didn’t want to acknowledge how silly it was, but Clarke knew, deep down, who it was.

“Uh, uh, no,” the girl stopped Clarke with a slow movement towards the weapon as the medic reached for her bag. “Easy there. Let’s not do this the hard way.”

“I have extra supplies in my bag,” Clarke informed her as she stood back up. 

“Let’s see.” The girl heaved the bag, further hurting her side. She felt sweat on her forehead, down her back from the pain she attempted to control. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll make it up to you.” In a movement so quick Clarke didn’t register until the noise reached her ears, her cell phone was smashed on the counter. 

“Seriously?” 

“Better safe than sorry. Where do you want me, Doc?” 

It took a moment for the medic to move, but she watched the infiltrator look around the small apartment and wait for instructions. If it wasn’t so terrifying, Clarke would have laughed. But she couldn’t think straight. The whole gun to her side thing, the whole breaking and entering, the whole all of it, as far-fetched as it was, blew her away.

“Will you lay down on the table?” the blonde moved to the sink and turned it on as hot as she could. She moved toward the bathroom and began grabbing whatever she could think of needing. 

“That’s a bit forward of you. Normally I hold off on that til the second date.” 

“Did you break into my house to scare me and make terrible jokes or let me help you?” 

“I’m a multi-tasker.” 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Clarke asked as she pulled and ripped the shirt on the woman in her kitchen. 

“My pride.” Lexa winced as fingers prodded the hole with the bullet.

“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what happened?” 

“Hunting accident.” 

“Since when do they arm deer?” 

“Misfire.”

“How do you figure?” 

“Believe me, the guy who did this wishes he hadn’t fired. I’d call it an accidental discharge at most.” 

“I can’t get a good look. I don’t know if it hit anything. I don’t know what kind of internal damage it did or-”

“Listen, Doc, I’m fine. I just need you to dig it out and patch me up. I can’t get a good look. I think my wrist is broken.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I have some experience,” the stranger shrugged, pointing to other scars on her body.

All Clarke could do was furrow her brow and begin working. She wasn’t sure why. She just did it. The gun was across the room, the girl was laying on her island, wincing and gnashing her teeth against the pain Clarke had always seen treated with pain killers, and she didn’t have to do it. She shouldn’t have helped. Not this criminal. But Clarke swore to help anyone who needed it, and these seemed like desperate times. 

She worked in the quiet while the girl with the paint around her eyes watched her intently. Lexa did her research. Pulled the files. Knew everything she could about Clarke Griffin. This was not a random stop. This was planned, a contingency. A beautiful contingency she spent an extra day vetting, but still.

“You can pick it up, if it will make you feel more comfortable,” she offered, noticing the blue eyes flicker once more to the weapon on the counter. “It’s not loaded.” From her other pocket she brandished the clip and grinned.

“You mugged me with an unloaded gun?” Clarke paused her movements. 

“I wouldn’t call it a mugging. More like persuasion.” 

“Goodness.”

“Well I didn’t want to shoot you.” 

“Happen often? These shootings?” Lexa grinned.

She liked her sass, she liked the way she begrudgingly helped but put her best effort forward because if Lexa learned anything from her vetting process it was that Clarke Griffin was incapable of anything less than her everything.

“This is really going to hurt,” the medic offered after a few more minutes of cleaning and prodding and testing.

“Like it hasn’t yet?” 

“You should bite down on something.” 

“Just go.” Lexa strangled the cry in her throat as Clarke dug though the skin to find the bullet.

It came out easily, damaged nothing, and as far as Clarke could guess from the other visable scars, was the luckiest shot of all. She wanted to ask about the others, but it felt oddly intimate despite the present situation. But she didn’t even know this strangers name. 

“What should I call you?” 

“I’ll be whoever you want,” Lexa grimaced and tried to breathe. 

“I mean your name. I deserve that.” 

“I believe it’s The Commander.” 

“That’s a myth.” 

“One myth, in the flesh.”

“No,” Clarke shook her head, incredulous and not buying. “There’s no way. I’m probably patching up some criminal. And I don’t know why.” 

“You seriously find that,” Lexa gulped and winced as more alcohol was poured onto her wound. “To be the weirdest part of tonight? That on a night when you get held at gunpoint-”

“Unloaded gunpoint.”

“At gunpoint and made to patch up a bullet hole. The fact that I’m the Commander is out of the question.” 

“I never believed in it. I spend too much time cleaning up the messes that are left behind after this mythological creature is long gone.” 

“Dirty cops and criminals.”

“Right.” 

“Not my biggest fan, eh?” Lexa grinned and swore beneath her breath. She watched the blonde move, watched her dig through her bag and pull out a container. 

“I don’t have needles or anything sanitary enough to feel good about sewing. I’m just going to glue you. But you have to get some stuff in you to clean your blood, just in case.” 

“You got it, Doc.” 

Clarke moved more, working carefully. All the while Lexa simply watched until she began to look around the apartment, struck by everything in it, how normal it all felt and was.

“How did you pick me… to help you?” Clarke asked as they grew quiet and contemplative at the predicament at hand. 

“Your partner helped me once, a while back. Said if I needed anything to come to him, or you.”

“I’ll have to thank him.” 

“He meant well. And at least he was impressed I was the Commander.” 

“We have differing views on many things,” Clarke perked her eyebrows and resumed her work. 

“Not even a little impressed?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell?” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re someone who checks on the junkies by the river when it gets cold out. And you’re someone who will probably try to convince yourself it was just a dream or something. You give out extra blankets and supplies like candy, you go to protests about the corruption in City Hall, you even move around your union rep to help a few families get by at work. Even got a few commendations for service in the thick of it and responding to the attacks down on the old market district.”

The air in the kitchen was quiet. Not a sound was heard outside and Clarke surveyed her handiwork, the blood on her hands, on her counter, on the girl beneath her. The pallid film of blood loss could be seen on the hero’s cheeks, but the deep green of her eyes was aching for a fight.

“I have a spare shirt you can have. It’s cold out. You should stay tonight. I want to monitor your vitals.” 

“I’ll be fine,” the Commander sat up slightly, the wooziness hitting her once more despite her pigheadness in fighting it. 

“You lost a lot of blood.” 

“It took you three extra hours to get home.” 

“It’s my fault you are suffering from blood loss?” 

“Kind of.” 

The medic stood from the stool and walked over the dresser. She pulled out a shirt and tossed it to the thing sitting on her counter.

“Do you have any aspirin?” 

“Yeah, give me a second.” 

By the time Clarke returned from the bathroom, her apartment was empty.

* * *

The eyes haunted her. She saw them on the subway. They were getting off when she was boarding; they were going the opposite direction at a station on another train completely. She felt them when she sat down for lunch, when she ordered her coffee. There was no reason to think this bullet-riddled stranger would be around, and if all evidence proved to be true, Clarke had little doubt that this painted-crusader had more important fish to fry than snooping on a lowly paramedic. But still. She saw them.

It wasn’t even that Lexa meant to do it, meant to allow herself those little moments of almost bumping into the stitcher of her wounds.She made the time though, it seemed. She debated for a week how to return the shirt but eventually did, with a thank you and her name in the most elegant scrawl she could manage. Clarke read it out loud, said the name and tasted it in her mouth.

There were more wounds. More scrapes and near misses and such, but none that warrented the good medic’s help, and Lexa couldn’t figure out how it made her feel that she was almost hoping for a reason. 

The night after she left the shirt and note, she sat outside on the street and felt the dull ache when she remembered to remember Costia. That felt terrible and swollen and tender still. It was all in her head she decided.

It wasn’t that she was a hero, it wasn’t that she did anything extravagant. Ninety percent of her day was spent simply surveyilling, gathering information, waiting for when to act. It wasn’t capes and theatrics and blazing signals in the sky. It was dilligence and worry and guilt. Namely guilt, if she were being honest.

“Did she say anything?” Lexa muttered as she held up a paper on the bench. She looked over the top of it at the large man in the expensive suit. 

“Worried she’s going to start asking questions?” Anya chuckled through the tiny bug in her ear. 

“Just curious,” Lexa turned the page, still watching. “Aren’t you worried Bellamy will start asking questions about your extra curriculars?” 

“No. He works such crazy hours, he can barely keep up with his own schedule.” 

“I just thought maybe I made an impression.” 

“A gun to someone’s back does that, yeah.” 

Lexa felt her lips pull at one corner to a smile as she folded the paper and stood up, tucking it under her arm as she began to stroll behind the man.

“It’s been three years since Costia. I say you go back on the grid. Pick a life you want to live, and just do it. Forget this. You accomplished what you came for, and much more.”

“I’ve pissed a lot of people off.” 

“You told me it’d be one guy. You got the guy who killed her. Then you couldn’t stop yourself. I’m just saying that we’re approaching critical mass of things we can handle.” 

“I have a new plate for you.” 

“You don’t have to feel guilty for craving a life.” 

“I gave that up when I pulled the trigger.” 

“I came back. You can come back.” 

“You had something to come home to.” 

“You can too.”

“I was just worried she’d start asking questions.” 

Lexa ducked her head and turned around when her mark checked to see if he was being followed. She slung her leg over her motorcycle and followed a second later, turning her ear piece off in the process.

* * *

The sidewalk was dusted with that lousy film of the first bit of a few inches of snow, but still Clarke trudged onward to her apartment.

Her bag fell with a thud, the thud, the noise of dirty laundry and work boots. The frost and flakes of melted snow dripped from her coat as keys hit table and she stepped over the mail for the moment.

“Not a sound.” A hand was over her mouth as she yelped. Something poked into her back. 

Suprised and angry, Clarke pushed the hand away. Lexa held up her fingers in the shape of a gun and dropped them.

“Don’t worry. Not loaded.” 

“Again? Seriously? Why can’t you just call? Or leave a note? Text?” Clarke tried to catch her breath and steady her racing heart. “Are you alright?”

“Are you concerned for me, Doc?” 

“As concerned as one can be for a psychopath that likes to break and enter.”

“Quite the sweet talker.” 

“What do you want?”

Clarke gave up and flopped onto her couch, making a mental list to see about a taser or new deadbolt for her apartment. For some reason she thought it’d be ineffective, but still. 

“You were at the shooting in Bellwood last night?” 

“How do you… Are you following me?” 

“No. Not you.” Clarke clenched her jaw and looked away, her mind racing. 

“Did you… shoot that kid?” 

“No. You think I would do that?” 

“I don’t know anything about you.” 

“I didn’t shoot that kid, Clarke. I’m trying to find who did.” 

“How am I supposed to know?” 

“Did he say anything? The kid?” 

“He was unresponsive when we arrived.” 

“You got him back on the bus.” 

“How do you- nevermind,” Clarke leaned forward and ran her hands over her cheeks. “He just kept saying Yesikov. Don’t tell Yesikov.” 

“Okay,” Lexa nodded and moved toward the door. 

“Wait! What does it mean?” 

“It’s better if you don’t know.” 

“Lexa!” Clarke stood and followed a few steps toward the door. “Wait! If you’re going to keep showing up here, you have to tell me more.” 

“What else do you want to know?” the masked girl said, turning too quickly so that Clarke found herself just inches from the invader. The medic gulped and felt flustered, barely moving back. 

“I dont know… just. Who are you? Why do you do this? What are you going to do?” 

“You really jump in, huh?” she grinnd, eyes darting from Clarke’s eyes to her lips, standing taller. “What ever happened to small talk? All anyone wants from me is boring stuff like real identity and manifesto and blah blah.” 

“You don’t seem like a girl who enjoys small talk.” 

“No. I suppose not,” Lexa’s lips twitched at the corner. “I’ll see you around, Clarke.”

It took another minute, but Lexa pulled herself from the situation, tugged herself from hre orbit and closed the door behind her. She heard Clarke open it as she disappeared down the steps.

* * *

The bar was crowded, was spilling out into the street with smokers, was warm and loud and full in the small brick rectangle. Clarke sat at the bar and waited for her friends, glad to have gotten there a bit early. 

“I didn’t order this,” she held her hand up, trying to wave it away as the bartender started to give her a glass. 

“It came from,” the bartender looked back towards the entrance. “She was just there. I’m not sure where she went.” 

“Thanks.” Clarke picked up the glass and looked around the crowded place. 

“Anytime.” A voice made her neck feel warmer. Clarke felt the heat make her blush, only the heat. Nothing else. “Nice to see you out.”

“Almost didn’t recognize you without the threatening methods and side arm,” Clarke grinned as a girl slid into the stool beside her. 

It wasn’t that she looked completely different, except that she almost did. Her face, clean and fresh and void of any paint was surprisingly plain, but in a way that made Clarke want to stare at it longer. The eyes were the same, the piercing deep green that bordered on dangerously dark. She hadn’t noticed her lips before, those were new, or so Clarke would have guessed after never remembering how full they looked. 

Gone was the firearm. Gone was the heavy leather and all black clothing, gone were the boots and the bruises, and in their places heels and colors and a body. 

“Taking the night off, Commander?” 

“Working a new angle,” she explained, picking up her own glass and sipping. She looked back at Clarke from under her lashes. “What brings a pretty girl like you to a terrible bar like this?” 

“Don’t use pick up lines on me.” 

“Can’t I just be a girl in a bar? A complete stranger trying to chat you up?” 

“I don’t know. Are you armed?” 

“Always.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Starting over. Hello. My name is Lexa. I just moved here from Boise and goodness, this city is huge,” the vigilante grinned, extending her hand. Clarke watched it for a moment before shaking it. 

“Clarke.”

“And what do you do, Clarke?” 

“I’m a paramedic. And you, Lexa?” 

“I was in security for a little while. Now I’m between jobs.” Clarke smiled. 

“Are you looking to settle down in the city?” 

“I’m certainly trying. Habits are hard things to break.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What did you do?” 

“Nothing,” Lexa shrugged and tried the smirk. “I haven’t done anything. Can’t I just get a pretty girl some pretty flowers?” 

Shy and guilty, Lexa half hid behind the bouquet of Clarke’s favorites, a shield of sorts to protect her from the inevitable. It’d been effective in the past, though she understood the day would come when it’d become old hat. 

“You left in the middle of the night and it’s been three days.”

“Something came up. Can I come in?” 

“I thought you were retiring.” 

“I did. I am. I will,” the vigilante tried, looking away, slightly guilty. 

It was the truth, or at least as close to the truth as she could manage. She had adopted a new life that was relatively calm and normal. It wasn’t a cover, it was an entire existence, carefully crafted and curated and maintained. Lexa did actually do some work as a freelancer. She sat in a cafe or in the park and did work. And then she beat up drug dealers. 

“Please?” she tried standing at her girlfriend’s door. 

It was no use, and Clarke knew it. She struggled with simply being grateful that Lexa showed back up in the real world at all, versus her strong anger at the risk and such that she knew she’d put herself in, doing whatever it was that she did for three days. 

Lexa finally made her way inside with a grin, handing Clarke the flowers and kissing her quickly as she passed. Clarke locked the door and smelled the bouquet. 

“Jesus Christ, Lexa,” Clarke furrowed as she finally saw her girl standing in the living room. She laid the flowers on the counter and approached despite the vigilante’s attempt to duck and look away. “Where did… what did you do?” 

“It’s nothing,” Lexa shrugged as Clarke tried to touch her neck. 

“These aren’t nothing,” the medic snorted, grabbing her chin and moving it so she could survey the bruising. 

Tenderly as she could, Clarke traced the dark purple things on Lexa’s neck. 

“I couldn’t stay away any longer,” the injured party sighed. “I didn’t want you to see.”

Clarke lifted her shirt, following the trail of bruising, noticing it all along Lexa’s body. 

“What am I going to do with you?” 

“Keep me.”

* * *

“What about family?” Clarke whispered, running her fingertips along Lexa’s back. Scars littered it like a tilled field, bumpy and rigid and firm. The lights from the city blinked outside until the world was just an orange glow behind the curtains. 

“Never had any. Except Anya. We came up through the system together. I moved in with her when she turned eighteen.” 

“So you exist?” 

“I think you know I do,” Lexa grinned, kissing Clarke’s thigh. 

“I mean, like, literally.”

“I did once,” the vigilante in her bed sighed and closed her eyes. “I stole all the records. That took a few months. And then I got a new life. I’ve just never used it. According to the records, I graduated, and I’ve worked for a few places. Pay my taxes. Own an apartment. You know. I just haven’t had a chance to use it until you showed up.” 

“I think you showed up first,” Clarke smiled, brushing hair away from shoulders as she rubbed there. “How did you do all of it? Why did you?” 

“Growing up, I was good at stealing things. And then I went into the military, and I got good at other things. Doesn’t leave many practical life skills.” 

“But why do you do it?”

“When I was a kid, the only cop that ever tried to look out for me and Anya, she caught us boosting these old computer parts. She let us go. And I shadowed her, she taught me things. I was abroad when she was gunned down. And that stuck to me. I loved someone. And she was collateral damage in a drug deal gone wrong. There were these things that happened to perfectly nice, good, honest people. And no one could do anything.”

“So you did something.”

“Yeah.”

“So do you actually do freelance work?” 

“Yes,” Lexa chuckled, kissing Clarke’s stomach. 

“Do you think you’ll ever retire?” 

“I am.” 

“I mean really.”

“I didn’t, until you.”

* * *

It wasn’t that Lexa had ever considered dying before, but when she laid in the street, coughing and tasting the mouthful of pennies tasted, she felt oddly at ease knowing that deep down this had been what she’d expected.

What she hadn’t seen coming was the almost sadness and fight, this lack of decisiveness to simply give up to the hand that was dealt. It was different. She didn’t want to die, and that was a surprise.

“Get the kit, Bell,” Clarke ordered, kneeling over Lexa as soon as she arrived to the scene. “Come on, baby, come on,” Clarke whispered, cutting at the shirt and pulling off the armour Lexa wore. Careful to keep it all together, Clarke pushed gauze into the wounds. 

“Is she alive?” 

“I have a thready pulse,” Clarke said as they lifted the gurney. “I need you to drive.” 

By the time they were in the back, Clarke got to work, careful pulling off anything that would identify Lexa as the Commander. Gently as she could, she washed her face, removing the paint, bagging the accessories and stashing them in the back of the ambulance. 

“You’re going to be okay, Lex,” she whispered, running her hands over her hair. “It’s okay. We are going to get you fixed up.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Lexa coughed once more and tried to lift herself in the bed, readjusting her weary limbs and stitches as the detective continued to write in his little notebook. 

“But how do you explai-” he tried before the door to the small hospital room opened. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Clarke smiled awkwardly. “The nurse said you were resting.” 

“No, it’s fine. Detective Ralt was just leaving.”

“If you can remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call, Ms. Woods,” the detective smiled curtly before tossing his card on the table beside the bed. “Ma’am,” he nodded to Clarke before exiting quickly. 

“They certainly are thorough,” the paramedic snorted, watching the door close before turning back to the girl in the bed. 

“Look at you. You’re so protective.” 

“Tends to come out when my secret superhero girlfriend gets shot four times and I have to lie to the authorities,” Clarke muttered as she popped the buttons on Lexa’s gown. 

“I like it.”

“Shot. Four times.” 

Lexa grinned despite herself as Clarke’s hands moved along the bandages, looking at the bruising, checking what she could. When she buttoned them back up again, Lexa watched her face, saw the furrow, felt guilty again. 

“Well, what’s the diagnosis?” she asked as Clarke flipped through her papers. 

“Retirement.” 

“How much am I going to have to apologize?” 

“You think it’s a joke,” Clarke fumed in that quiet way. 

“I think I got shot four times and survived, so maybe I am a superhero.” Lexa smiled and lulled her head around in the pillow. 

For longer than she thought, Lexa felt Clarke’s eyes staring at her. The blonde opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it. Instead she just walked out.

* * *

The stairs were a challenge, but Lexa managed after an hour. She sweat through her shirt, her body ached and pained, echoed with the ringing of the bullets that filtered through them, but she climbed every step up the four floors.

Five days she sat in that hospital room, righting with nurses and growing more and more impatient and sullen. Five days Clarke didn’t visit and refused to answer her phone calls. 

The flowers were falling apart by the time she reached Clarke’s door. She looked at them in her hand and frowned, hating it almost as much as the pain in her ribs that seemed to escalate beyond repair. 

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asked, opening the door slightly. 

“I brought you these.” They were a flimsy shield, but still Lexa projected the flowers, as if they were a key, a factor in helping her case. 

“You can’t keep doing this.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Showing up on my doorstep with flowers. It’s not going to work.” 

“It isn’t a ploy. I just wanted to do something nice for you.” 

“I don’t think this can go any further. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“Don’t do that,” Lexa stuck her hand out quickly, stopping the door from closing. “I’m going to make it super hard because I don’t like it.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” the blonde sighed. “It’s what I want.” 

“Why?” 

“Lexa…”

“Clarke.” 

“Just… can we talk tomorrow or something? I just got home and it’s been a long day.” 

“I want to… what? Can you at least talk to me?” Lexa pled. “I’m sorry, for whatever I did. I am. Just don’t quit without giving me a chance to fix it. That’s not fair. I’m trying.” 

“This is it,” Clarke nudged her chin at the display. “You don’t listen, and what’s the point. You aren’t going to change, you warned me that you couldn’t. So I’m cutting my losses, and if you’ll excuse me. I want to go to bed.”

“Clarke, wait,” Lexa tried again, searching her face, looking for something, but the medic wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“Why?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t even know why you’re sorry.” 

“I’m sorry that I upset you and got you to this point, but you can’t just do this… just… decide you don’t want me. We’re more than that.” 

“I didn’t decide it. It was decided for me. I can’t. I am very much in love with you, and I realized it in the back of an ambulance when I thought you were dead, twice.” Clarke paused, finally looking at Lexa. “I can’t sit around and watch you kill yourself.” 

“I’m not… I wouldn’t. It was-”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. I just need to sleep.” 

The door was closed and Lexa was still flapping like a fish, unsure of what was happening, unsure of why she was meant to be sorry, unsure of what Clarke meant, and especially unsure of what she should do next. 

“I think you’re wrong,” Lexa stated, opening the door and closing it behind her. “I think you’re wrong and I think I messed up, but I can fix it. I want to fix it.”

“Lexa, please,” Clarke sighed, head hung as her shoulders sagged in the kitchen. 

“What can I do?” 

“You don’t get it, obviously,” Clarke turned quickly. “I found you on the street in a puddle of your own blood.” Lexa watched her walk closer, heard her voice grow louder. “I saw your heart stop. I was covered in your blood. I hid your identity. I had to do all of that.” Clarke was suddenly close, suddenly beside Lexa, suddenly capable of poking her, jabbing right where a bullet hole had been, making her wince despite herself. “And you just make jokes about it. It’s not funny. You said you were quitting that.”

“I am. I was. I mean. I am,” she tried, rubbing her side. “It’s hard. I can’t lie, it’s a hard habit to break. But I’m trying.” 

“I won’t sit around and wait for the day you don’t come home.” 

“I’ll always come home.” 

“You won’t.”

“It’s done. I’m done with it.” 

“You’ll never be done.”

* * *

Tomorrow turned into the next tomorrow, turned into next week, turned into a phone call in which Clarke stood her ground, unable to shake the feeling of losing Lexa completely, and, despite her own guilt, getting out of it early because she was too weak to handle such a thing. Despite the pleas and promises, Clarke stuck to her original conclusion, much to Lexa’s dismay. 

The phone call was short, was honest, was full of fear and sadness. Lexa grit her teeth and finally said goodbye with another apology. 

Clarke stared at the phone as her screen went dark, and despite it being the right decision, she hated herself for it.


	4. Chapter 4

The headlines rang out in deep black on the first page. Clarke managed to avoid them for the first half of the morning, though they stared back at her on the subway. Everywhere she looked, the news that the Commander had done what the police had failed to do for years– allegedly capture the leader of the Company– it was plastered across every open paper and window and television screen.

She wanted to be happy, she wanted to find something, but as Clarke read, she did not find Lexa’s name, and she did not find anything she was looking for as to how the vigilante was faring. Thought she chided herself for even looking or wondering.

That should have been alright, because Clarke walked away, left Lexa, decided she couldn’t handle it. And nothing had changed, in that realm. But still, the paramedic worried. 

There was no escaping her. The Commander was everywhere. Graffiti in the subway and on tunnels and overpasses. Pages of newspaper speculation. Her eyes. Clarke swore she saw those green eyes at bus stops and corners and cafes and bars, right in the middle of crowds, gone in an instant. 

Three months, and she was damn near certain a ghost followed her about during the day. It sure as hell haunted her at night, when the tired of the day crawled into bed beside her, begged her to come to sleep, and all she could do was lay there in the dark, eyes straining against it, desperately aching and finally succumbing to it. All day, the pressure built, as much like she imagined a deep sea diver’s suit to feel as it descended to the most remote, treacherous points in the ocean. At night, in the dark, the entire ocean squeezed her, and Clarke gave up trying to pretend she wasn’t drowning. 

The daylight was when she bobbed her head, took a breath, and let herself begin the sink again.

With a heavy sigh, she balled up the paper and threw it in the trashcan as she left the platform, emerging finally out into the city, promising herself that today was the day that she forgot all about the beautiful girl with the wounded heart and brave eyes. Today was the day. 

Or tomorrow. 

Most certainly at least tomorrow.

* * *

From the back of the crowded bar, Lexa sipped her whiskey and stared intently at the blonde on the stool at the countertop. She did not catch her often, but ever now and then, Lexa felt compelled, like an addict even, like a starving man who couldn’t hold out any longer but must feast on his own pain, she found the blonde and fell in love again. 

No one noticed her. No one cared much. But Lexa sat and watched, making sure she was alright, making sure Clarke was happy. The truth was that she had no one else to go after unless she stretched and made up reasons. She realized Clarke was right, and that she’d be chasing an unending trail forever, and that would kill her. 

But she didn’t know how to stop. 

And so she gave herself tiny moments. A passing glance on a subway platform. A chance at a look in a crowded bar. A lingering pause in the supermarket an aisle over just to hear her say excuse me to the sweet woman with all the cat food. They kept her sustained. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Lexa would go cold turkey. She’d give up on hoping that she could be something that was worthy of Clarke. It was always tomorrow. And tomorrow lasted almost a week sometimes before she gave in to this weakness. 

Lexa smiled slightly as she drained the glass and Clarke tilted her head back, laughing at something some of her friends said. 

This was all Lexa got. She stood and pushed her way through the bar that had not an ounce of free space. She excused herself as she bumped into everyone. When she was close enough, Lexa swore she smelled Clarke’s perfume. The shampoo she used. 

By the time she made it out and inhaled the fresh city air, her head was swirling. It took a moment, to be in such proximity, to catch her breath. Lexa felt her chest tighten and it get harder to breathe. She clutched at her chest and tried to swallow, quickly making her way down the block, swearing that tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow was the day because she could not feel this again.

* * *

“You’re well-rested,” Anya mocked as she slid a cup of coffee onto her friend’s desk just as Lexa nodded off, her head propped on her palm as the numbers moved down the screen. Anya’s voice made her jump and blink quickly as she attempted to look composed. 

It failed as she yawned. 

“Late night?” 

“Hm?” Lexa eagerly sipped the drink and yawned again. 

“You’re a mess.” 

“I got into my bed at 10:47 last night. I stayed in it until my alarm went off at 6:30 this morning,” Lexa explained between yawns. 

“I don’t understand then.” 

“Me neither. That’s how I’m supposed to do it, right?” 

“Yeah,” Anya chuckled, earning a frown. “Did you sleep?” 

“I tried.” 

“Sounds like you had caffeine too close to bed,” the woman across the small divider between desks muttered as she didn’t even look away from her screen.

“Thanks, Janis,” Lexa growled, grinding her teeth and swallowing scalding coffee. “I’ll try to remember that.” 

The foster sisters shared a look, one of enjoyment at the other’s misery and the other’s the pure anguish of the predicament. 

“Is this part of your plan to win Clarke back?”

“I’m not trying to win her back,” Lexa insisted, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her hands over her cheeks and eyes, another yawn escaping despite her best efforts to keep them in. “I’m trying to be… I want to be good for her.” 

“You talk about her like she’s perfect.” 

“Because she is, Janis,” Lexa sighed. 

“Didn’t she leave you?” 

“Yup. Thanks for that.” 

“If you think she’s perfect, you have to tell her.” 

“She deserves someone who makes her happy. She left me on purpose, as you’ve pointed out. I’m intrinsically flawed.” 

“If you think she’s perfect, you’d think you’d be able to make her happy. Flaws and all.” 

“That is what I’m trying to do, Janis.” Anya watched the volley match. she watched Lexa’s heckles raise, watched her shoulder tense and her jaw grow taught, her teeth on display more as she grew nasty, thoroughly outgunned by tiny, old, glasses-on-a-necklace and grandma-perfume-wearing Janis. 

“You’re thinking too much about it. You love the girl, you get the girl. No one deserves anything in life,” the older woman sighed and shook her head, her fingers not stopping as she moved through the spreadsheets in the computer. She never even looked away from her work. “You’re just scared.” 

“You know what,” Lexa stood up, leaning over the desk. Her voice grew quieter, though in no way composed. “I will kill you, Janis. I will.” 

“I’ve had seventeen desk mates. I’ll outlive you, sweetheart.” 

“I’m going to break, all of your pencils.” 

“I’m shaking.” 

“Janis, I swear to god. I know you’re like seven hundred years old, but I will break your hip.” 

“You can’t even tell a girl you love her.” 

“I’m going to–”

“Alright, let’s just walk it off, champ,” Anya intervened, pulling on her sister’s arm and smiling at the sweet old lady. “Come on. We’ll go get some fresh air.” 

“I can’t live like this,” Lexa yanked her arm away. “Day in, and day out. Me and Janis, typing away. How? How do you live like this?” 

“We’ll find you something different.” 

“It’s not just this,” she sighed, her body losing the tense clutch it had as they emerged into the city, with fresh air and people and life. “It’s…”

“It’s what?” 

“Just forget it,” Lexa exhaled.

* * *

As much as she tried, Clarke was intimately aware that there had been not even a whisper of the Commander in weeks. The papers asked where she was, the city speculate, and yet, not a sighting, not a credible whiff of her whereabouts. 

It wasn’t that Clarke was looking though, just that she happened to notice this fact in the world. 

“You’re quiet,” Bellamy grunted as he shoved supplies back in his bag. His partner took it, heaving it into the rig. 

“What? No. I’m just tired.”

“You know, you’re pretty good at not being heartbroken,” he nodded, going to work on the next kit. “If someone doesn’t spend upwards of sixty hours a week with you.” Clarke smiled and rolled her eyes, fiddling with something. 

“I’m really okay.” 

“Yeah, no, I know,” he nodded. Their hands moved of their own will while each had thoughts that burdened their brows. “She talks about you, still.” 

“You see her?” 

“Only a few times. Anya and her… they’re… um. Close? That’s a generous way to put it.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You left her, right?” he pressed. Anya made him do it, told him it was up to them to fix the moping idiots before either regretted it. “I mean, you’re the one that walked away.” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s up to you then. She’s not going to come for you. She’s a kicked puppy who now sleeps on my couch. So. You know.”

“I didn’t walk away because it was easy,” Clarke reminded him. 

“Does it matter?”

“On your couch?” 

“They’re close. It’s terrible,” he groaned, shoving another bag at his partner, grateful for the signal that this conversation was over. In the ambulance, Clarke smiled, put back on the mask that must have slipped to allow such an opening, and joked with her partner, afraid to work through any of what he said.

* * *

“Big plans this weekend?” Lexa’s deskmate asked as she pulled on her old lady sweater. 

“Yeah. Lots of hookers and blow.” 

“Me too.” 

Lexa cracked a smile. She tapped her pencil on the notepad on the desk and stared at the pages of work she was still supposed to analyze. For a second she chanced a look at her coworker. 

“Do people ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass, Janis?” 

“All the time. What about you?” 

“Often.” 

“You frustrate the hell out of me,” Janis shook her head and exhaled, pushing her chair in. 

“Good.” 

“You are much too young to be so miserable. What on earth could make you so damn miserable? It’s frustrating.”

“Why are you so miserable?” 

“Because, as you like to remind me, I’m basically dead and I have to watch you sit there and waste so much time.” 

“Yeah. I thought it was your old lady cream you wear might not be working anymore.” 

“You’re miserable,” Janis shook her head. “No wonder she left you.” 

“Fuck you too, Janis,” Lexa smiled and waved as her coworker waved her hand in dismissal. 

From her desk, Lexa watched everyone leave, oddly less motivated to work than before, as if it were possible to be less than before. Janis’ words echoed in her head on repeat until it was well dark out the windows, and she gave up, tugged on her coat, and set out into the night.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” 

“I missed your glowing personality and general feeling of warmth.” 

“How did you find out where I live?” 

“I may be terrible at my job, but I’m pretty good at other things.”

“Well, what do you want?”

For a moment, Lexa shifted her weight between her feet and fiddled with her fingers before shoving her hands in her pockets. The light from Janis’ home spilled out onto the street and all Lexa wanted to do was be anywhere else. 

“Figured you’re living on borrowed time and all your friends are dead, so might as well try to get one of us to be not miserable.” 

“I made chicken for dinner.” 

“Dammit, Janis. Get your coat on.” 

“I’m not riding on that,” she pointed an arthritic finger at the motorcycle over Lexa’s shoulder. 

“Shut up.”

* * *

The bar made Clarke dizzy, but she braved it anyway. It took many miles of debating herself on the treadmill, many nights spent turning it over in her head, but Clarke walked into the bar anyway. 

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she saw Lexa, with blood in a puddle and she heard the shallow sounds of her breathing as if it were the only noise in a room. Those things still happened. 

Lexa stared at her bottle of beer, twirling it between her fingers, deep in thought and celebrating her quitting. She should have been mourning her first real job’s passing, but in reality, she felt like she could finally breathe. 

It was a glimmer of that smell that made her lungs constrict first. Her throat grew angry and she furrowed, hard to try to ignore it. Vanilla. Vanilla and laundry, fresh from hanging outside, stiff from the breeze. It swirled around the old bar smell, and so she took another sip of her bottle. 

“Can I buy you another?” 

The voice came and Lexa refused to look beside her. She swallowed and set her jaw. 

“Normally I’m the one who sneaks up on people.” 

“I had some training a while back,” Clarke nodded, afraid to look at Lexa, yet afraid to look anywhere else. She saw her smirk and drink again, draining the rest of the bottle. Clarke signalled for two and waited until they were in front of them. “Do you think… do you think it’s honestly possible…”

Lexa felt her heart racing, so loud and hard, in fact, that she felt like her ears would burst with the pressure. And then she turned her head and looked at Clarke. That’d be the point she knew she’s cut off her arm right then if that’s what she wanted, and she’d hate herself for it.

“Do you think I can be a girl in a bar? And you can be just a girl in a bar?” 

Clarke studied Lexa’s face as she clenched her jaw and looked away, focusing intently on the bottle in her hands. Clarke held her breath. 

“I don’t know,” Lexa turned and grinned. “Are you armed?” 

For just a second they smiled and shared a knowing look, each finally breathing after holding it for months. 

“Always.” 

“Lexa,” she held out her hand, waiting for Clarke to shake it. “I quit my job today.” 

“Clarke,” Clarke held it longer than necessary. “So you’re between jobs?” 

“I used to do some pretty hazardous work, but I uh,” Lexa swallowed when their hands dropped. “It was taking over my life. It wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore. Now I’m just trying to figure it out.” 

“How’s it going?” 

“Well, my best friend is an 86 year old accountant,” the previous Commander shrugged, earning a chuckle. It felt like a first date. Maybe it was. “And I don’t know what my next step is. But I feel good.” 

“That’s all that matters.” 

“What about you? Any skeletons in your past?” 

“I’m um,” Clarke paused. “I’m coming off a pretty big regret.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I uh,” she stalled again, breaking Lexa’s glance. “I left someone. It was hard, but I thought it was for the best.” 

“Maybe it was.” 

“I think they’re the type of person that doesn’t forgive that kind of thing.” 

“Maybe,” Lexa nodded. “Maybe you just have to probe that you won’t leave again.”

“We’ll see,” Clarke smiled, soft and eager. Her eyes skimmed Lexa’s face, remembering every inch, yet feeling as if she’d never seen it before this moment. “Habits are hard things to break.” 

“For a girl like you, I’m sure someone would break a lot of habits.” 

THE END


End file.
